


Of Starry Nights, Libraries and Wallflowers

by Kazahana_Yukina



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Growing Old Together, James Arthur - Freeform, Libraries, Non magic AU, Slice of Life, Slightly based on the Song "Say You Won't Let Go", Slow Burn, Stars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-09
Updated: 2019-11-09
Packaged: 2021-01-26 00:42:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21365356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kazahana_Yukina/pseuds/Kazahana_Yukina
Summary: "Those auburn eyes never lose twinkle as the words reach him. She’s now looking at him over her shoulder, brown hair swaying with the spring breeze. He realizes with surprise that she is sober all along; and perhaps too, his own inebriation is long since gone from their first steps together."A story about life, love, relationships and family.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley
Comments: 4
Kudos: 11





	Of Starry Nights, Libraries and Wallflowers

**Author's Note:**

> These are snippets of life scenes that play constantly inside my head whenever I'm down, or just need a breather from life. I recommend you listen to James Arthur's "Say You Won't Let Go". That song is heaven sent! 
> 
> On we go!

**\--- 01 ---**

Once upon a time, in the place where the lights dance merry and music fill the air, they meet for the first time.

…

…

Their story starts here.

**\--- 02 ---**

_Auburn eyes…untamable _ _chestnut _ _hair…and a head shorter than him…_

She’s here: the young woman in his literature class.

Only tonight, something is different. He is unsure as to why, but the uneasy feeling simmers underneath the skin – like a buzzing instinct that won’t dissipate. Even as the music bellow across the hall, even as hundreds of people skim past his vision, he’s oddly attuned to her whenever she’s around.

A head shorter than him (tonight in a clean cut, cerulean cocktail)…

Untamable chestnut hair (submissively braided over the shoulder)…

But she’s glued in one corner, wringing her hands pale. Common courtesy dictates he should look away, respect her boundaries and leave it as is. But her eyes glue his attention – auburn eyes (a mixture of sadness and uncertainty), that despite her attempts on blending in like a shadow, he decides she deserves better than to be a wallflower.

Quite aware of rejection, he reaches out a silent offer before he could change his mind. The outstretched hand is suspended mid-air in tense anticipation as her gaze turns from surprise to restrained vigilance. Through the sharpness of her gaze, he shrugs and manages a reassuring smile, hoping to get the sincerity across. Though, when she links their hands together in modest acceptance, his smile falters as if the air suddenly grew thinner since the silent conversation.

The dance floor is spacious and the hall is frigid but her hands are warm, and the space between them a shy bit closer to none. As if on cue, the music mellows to a soft ballad and unexpectedly, his confidence dwindle with every note.

Yet, there is gratitude in her flitting eyes and he knows he made the right decision.

**\--- 03 ---**

She’s an arm’s length away, walking with high heeled shoes dangling from her fingers. Her soft laughs are a welcome disturbance, and as the night passes, he listens to her every word as if committing to memory.

The night breeze is gentle, freeing his hair from formal look. Hers is unbound from the braid – bushy tresses gathered over a shoulder. They tread the long route home on account of her insistence for a walk

‘_To clear their heads’_, she confides.

Their laughter is an agreement that alcohol probably – _definitely - _isn’t the best substance to consume. She didn’t mind lone walks in the slightest; but gallantry should be a norm so he keeps her company without a backward glance. 

Having her in a euphoric state is new knowledge since her world seems to be wider. Words are laced as she talks of things abstract – of wonders and miracles; hope and joy. She tells of aspirations and beauty; of diamonds found only through introspection. She paints wonderful pictures - woven stories of great men and women, of legends and history, folklore and magic. And he’s finds it amusing because who knew that the unassuming girl in Literature class breathes written words to this extent. A grin threatens to surface but he bites it back, not wanting to offend.

The moon hung brightly, as if gently encouraging the exchange. Her finger points to the stars and the air resounds with elation when she asks whether he believes in magic just as how it is painted in words.

The question hangs heavy while he weighs the answers that swarm. Half agree without question; the other half brings him back to reality. The truth is this is only one in a thousand memories she will likely forget. Tomorrow, everything will be back to normal – they are just two people who share a class - and it jabs him in a way that oddly makes him sad. So he resigns to staring at the white dotted sky, a half-lie out loud: 

“No. No I don’t.”

There is palpable coldness when she stops silent in her tracks, back against him. He need not see her face to know that gears are whirring inside that calculating head and he supposes with dismay that he may have broken the lightness of the moment. His fingers clutch the hem of his sleeve.

“Well, someday, I know you will.”

Those auburn eyes never lose twinkle as the words reach him. She’s now looking at him over her shoulder, brown hair swaying with the spring breeze. He realizes with surprise that she is sober all along; and perhaps too, his own inebriation is long since gone from their first steps together.

And he finds the answer, because _this _is magic in its entirety. Without warning, her monotony shifts, wiping out an image of a plain girl three rows behind his seat. Like a kaleidoscope of colors, the scope twirls and paints another marvelous picture: She is now the girl who wonders, the girl who asks and the girl born in awe.

He blames the sudden warmth from the alcohol in his system. 

**\--- 04 ---**

For all her unobtrusive individuality, she’s surprisingly easy to read – like reading as short story.

The library is her home.

He likes to watch discreetly in between classes, because it’s amusing to see her little form dart in and out of the aisles, cradling a new book with each reappearance. She sits at the furthest table (third chair from the window) and he supposes that it’s because of the garden view beyond that she fondly takes in every time her eyes needed to rest (Only his observation, though. Just the coincidental glances, and not because he stares that much. Right?) 

Literature class became his favorite.

She’s a timid one, but well-liked by the professors - grades pristine and hands ready to answer questions. Despite those, conceit is non-existent, and she takes time to help colleagues who sought it out. He pesters her occasionally just for the sake of it, though she swats the obvious sarcasm away with a roll of her eyes under a hidden smile. 

But his favorite? 

“I’ll walk you home.”

She shoots another annoyed look, but knows better than to work up the energy to protest. She tells him that she’s beginning to regret being his acquaintance, but his wide grin is an obvious rebellion as he relieves the stack of books from her. 

If anything, her incoherent hissing is pointedly ignored by his persistence.

The books are nothing but ample enough to knock out a person cold in one hit. Not that he’s complaining. Weighty books or not, a conversation with her along the way is something more important than the ache in his arms.

But it helps that her dormitory is only a few minutes away from his.

**\--- 05 ---**

They became friends.

He realizes that when, before the summer break, she hands him a worn out book – softbound, with some pages either browning, tattered or torn - an indication of a personal favorite.

“Read it. Return it to me and borrow more after that.”

There was a moment of frozen silence before he comes to his senses. (She swats him square in the head with the _very same book_). In response to her embarrassment, he could only grin back in impish glee.

**\--- 06 ---**

It is half past midnight; but the doorbell ring is relentless.

He forgets the sleep-deprived irritation because it’s _her. _Downright shivering and eyes bloodshot, she’s soaking from the midnight rain. “Hi,” the dead look in her eyes is more sickening than the forced smile. “…do you have time?” 

Almost recklessly, he drags her in and swallows down the curses at the tip of his tongue. A towel in hand, he focuses on drying, not caring whether the couch she’s on is slowly seeping wet. Sometime in between the urgency, his roommate comes to check out the commotion. There was silent empathy, and the former leaves to give the friends some space.

“Uhm…” He’s fiddling the damp towel nervously. “Shall I make a cup of tea?” She looks at him as if he sprouts a second head, but he just shrugs and mutters, “It’s what my mom does when someone’s upset.”

Touched by the gesture, she nods, and he’s off leaving her to collect herself. 

A set of clean clothes, four cups of tea, and a second batch of firewood later, she looks up at him and smiles. But the brokenness in her eyes is more than the truth.

“Dad left.”

Bile rises up when his intuitions come true. Of course. He’s seen it earlier in his own family, and her words are as good as watching his worst nightmare all over again. It’s nothing more than a passing thought in one of their conversations but it’s still a shock to take in. She is a steadfast woman but strength can only get one so far. Once, he half hoped that the setbacks won’t break her walls, but two words and her bloodshot eyes sink his heart further. 

Along with the sound of the rain drumming against the windows, he pulls her closer to his chest and allows her to grieve for a piece of her soul now lost. 

**\--- 07 ---**

The morning after, she’s gone ahead, profusely apologizing for such an unholy hour commotion. He does not mind letting her sleep last night in his room, while he and his roommate take refuge on the couch and floor, but she insisted that it’s a kindness she can never repay.

Ten minutes after, he’s still in the living room, sprawled on the couch he occupied just the night before. His brain is whirring wildly, ears ringing louder with every second. He feels knocked off balance, slammed in the gut, like he managed to participate in a brawl so early in the morning. Something is sinking in and he’s taking the time to assess just what on earth is happening because, even as he thinks it through, he’s smart enough to warrant only one conclusion. 

And he feels the horror slowly morph into unbelief, joy and, finally, a boyish glee that sends his laugh roaring across the living room. He replays the scene in his head once more, each second making him smile wider if it’s possible.

Because this time, all debts between them are settled. 

He’s caught – hook, line and sinker - the moment she left that morning with the memory of her grateful kiss on his cheek.

His roommate walks in on him giggling like a high school girl and wiggling on the couch like a worm under the scorching sun. He chose not to dwell on the subject.

**\--- 08 ---**

Three months before graduation, she slips away. 

He does not understand the unexpected change, but she keeps the distance: mumbling a clipped answer to inquiries, declining offers to walk home together or even refusing to look him in the eye for simple exchanges. With everything, there’s an unspoken disquiet with each refusal, coercing him to accept and respectfully stay outside the walls she built.

Still, he wonders (hurt and confused) as to what unlucky turn of the dice slid them back to square one. He falls asleep each night sulking. 

The answer comes to him two weeks later while on his way to deliver their research papers. Apparently, she phones in sick earlier, leaving him to complete the advising session without his partner (just a research partner, he reminds himself). The phone lights up highlighting her name, and his enthusiasm picks up just after two beeps.

_“Tell me the truth.”_ The voice is rushed and muffled, the sound of dull footsteps thudding in the background. Pacing, perhaps? Her breathing is rushed and heavy as if on the verge of panicking, and this sets him in running with a sense of urgency.

“What truth?” 

_“Are you attracted to me?” _

The momentum of the run sends him stumbling at the sudden halt. The question replays in his mind, as if trying to verify that he indeed did not mishear. _Get back on track. Get the train back on track! _(Because if imagination would come into play, he has thought up a thousand scenarios of how it would unravel out, but THIS - over the phone with her panicking initiative - is something beyond his, or any _proper person’s_ head.)

But there is an uneven clicking of footsteps over the phone, growing more hurried every second that he decides it’s now or never. “Obviously” He says after a calculated pause.

The uneven pacing from the other side stops, as with her breathing. The static buzzes louder. Then he proceeds to take a dive:

“I’m assuming you asked because you’re in a similar position?” 

The line clicks dead after a shrill scream that crowded his vision with spots and that’s all it takes to cross the remaining distance between the elevator and the door.

He does not knock. 

“You’re running away.” The indifference lacing his voice is but an accusation without preamble. 

“You don’t understand.” Her soft voice comes muffled beyond the door. “Romance is nothing but fiction…There’s Juliet, Cosette, and Jane Eyre…then there’s Jaime Sullivan, Hermione Granger, and Hazel Lancaster…and many more others… They’re wonderful…they really are. But they’re not me.”

“What’s that have to do with you?”

“I’m scared!” A beat. And then: “These are untested waters. Words are easy, but reality is unpredictable…you cannot cheat by reading the last chapter first before Chapter One. Friendly relationships are hard enough…but beyond that door is…”

_An Airhead. Beyond this door is my clueless airhead... _

“Who says anything about fiction?” he pinches the bridge of his nose to ward off an incoming headache. “This life is not a book. You said it yourself. Nothing is set in stone. We don’t have authors but ourselves, and it is only through ourselves that our paths will get written.” He takes a step forward, as if to drill the words through the door. “If you’re unsure what to write, skip through it and write later when the inspiration comes. If you want something to happen, write it yourself and don’t regret a word. Everyone is always learning – that’s what you told me before. I’m as unsure as you are, but this now is our Prologue.” He releases a long suffering sigh, gritting his teeth to brace his mental state. “So will you let me be in Chapter One?”

Using this figure of speech probably isn’t the best way to convince a Literature Major, but something about the shared class feels sacred and he wants to honor it thru such.

There is a tense silence, and he wonders if she’s still alive beyond the mahogany door. But when the door shifts, her eyes on her feet and cheeks pink, he already knows the answer. 

**\--- 09 ---**

When they walked past the auditorium doors after graduation, they shyly held hands in public for the first time. 

**\--- 10 ---**

_She’s made for this career_. He ponders unconsciously. 

Beads of sweat roll down his temples; her undignified muttering droning in the background. At age twenty four, she’s offered the chance for career growth at a high school in the nearby city – an opportunity wholeheartedly accepted. Which brings them back here, one sweltering afternoon, in the chaotic apartment littered with a sea of book towers.

A sharp pang on a shoulder cuts the trance and he’s ever grateful that no more boxes are out of commission. Those heavy boxes of books which he’s been forced to carry reminds him of their good old days, and he can’t help a reminiscent grin despite the pins and needles on both arms.

He’s leaning on one shoulder by the doorway, content in watching her glare a hole at the nearly full case. By her feet are a couple more books still under scrutiny for – to quote the muttering - _accessibility, genre _and_ frequency of use_. The current arrangement on the bookshelf didn’t escape him – front and foremost are reference books for her homeroom. 

And he muses again how being an educator is her niche. Intellect is but a tip of the iceberg; it’s the passion that keeps one grounded on track. She’s a presence firm but never overwhelming. Reassuring but not forceful – goading a student to a path they wanted to follow. He comes to the conclusion that she is light, but not like the sun that blind and scorch.

She will never be the sun, for she is a reflection of the moon in its entirety.

Insecurities bubble up, but he does his best to swallow them down. They are equals – he remembers her pep talk. He believes her: she whose passion stirs up embers in young hearts, and fuels his own; and the woman to whom he wanted to offer what his humble dreams could reach. Someday, when the time is right, he hopes that he can muster up the courage to say

“Marry me.”

_Huh?_

Just one second ago, he is cursing the heat burrowing into their skin, but now, nothing but a cold shiver in the air shifts in the room, leaving his exposed arms quite shaking and cold sweat forming on the hands. Since when did the weather turn about? 

_Ah. _

It comes out unbidden and verbally – _out loud_, so much he swears the ground can swallow him whole. It slipped out. _How on earth would something like that slip out?! _Never mind elaborate plans for dinner and candlelight surprises. This one for sure catches them both off guard.

The atmosphere tenses, while she turns to face him. He supposes this is how superheroes feel when perceiving things in black and white slow motion. He likes to believe that it’s pride which allowed him the courage to look straight into those stupefied auburn eyes, but he knows better than to acknowledge that it is but utter hysteria on his part. 

An ear-splitting phone call pierces the deadlock, spiraling them both into a frenzy.

In the flurry of madness that followed, (there are a few things which flew his way; a string of shrill jabbering and a sharp stab on the side where a hardbound fiction hit its mark), he catches her inelegantly when she dives in headfirst. He looks up to her crying and flustered form, and instantly, he knows.

Down on the floor of the humble apartment - her crying, and him grinning like an idiot he is - he swallows the answer with a kiss. 

**\--- 11 ---**

They marry at night in the countryside - the moon’s reflection on the lake a witness to their vows.

**\--- 12 ---**

Two years, nine months and thirteen days into their marriage, the door of the flat slams open loud and hard, scaring the daylights out him

Clutching the now torn newspaper, he witnesses his wife _(wife…wife…it feels good to say it)_, cheeks flushed and chest heaving with every breath as if she just had the run of her life. Eyes wide with panic, she stammers something fast he does not quite catch. After a few stunned minutes, he manages a feeble “I-I’m sorry dear, could you repeat that?”

“There’s a bun in the oven.” She remains glued to the doorway, her expression still delirious, if not worse. 

Whatever answer he expected, pastries and kitchenware are not on the list. His eyebrows meet when he eyes the counter. It’s immaculately clean, not to mention the oven completely empty following her instructions before leaving the house. “Darling…” he starts, walking on eggshells, “I believe I took out the cookies as you asked.”

“NO!” the shriek pierces the air and she pulls her hair hard it might tear from the roots. Her heavy footsteps follow and instinct has him staggering back with horror at what could have gone wrong with following instructions that simple.

She pulls his face at eye-level as she repeats through gritted teeth. “THERE’S A BUN. IN. THE OVEN.”

Her face is a myriad of emotions never worn before, feeding his alarm as he tries to make sense of everything. There’s anger, there’s panic, a hint of fear, elation and tangible anticipation that overpower everything else. _There’s a bun in the oven. There’s a bun in the - _

_Oh. _

He turns pale…flushes red…and then turns pale again.

Moments later, she is on the floor, cackling. He’s busy gathering his wits, sitting with his head between the knees. The phrase keeps repeating in his mind and he finds it harder to breathe every time it does.

For what feels like an eternity, gentle arms wrap around his shoulders and lips whisper in his ear words full of love and pride it breaks and mends his heart at the same time:

“Congratulations Daddy.”

This time he laughs, slow then unbridled as they bask in the joy of the good news. When he places a trembling hand on her stomach, she bites back the overflow of tears, not wanting to ruin the moment. She pretends not to see his bloodshot eyes when they embrace. 

…

“Took you that long to figure out, huh?”

“Shut up, woman.”

**\--- 13 ---**

The four feet space between them feels like a thousand miles.

They have long stopped clawing at each other’s necks; voices now hoarse and broken. In place of teeth and claws is the palpable silence that is more deafening than all their blind rage combined.

Six years ago, when everything still made sense, the only thing occupying them was the blissful peace from coming home to each other at night. The after-work hours became a favorite because it involves sitting together in dinners and talking about their day like they haven’t seen each other in years. Six years ago, when they decided to ride out tides hand-in-hand, they promised not to break each other’s hearts in irreparable ways (for they knew full well that an imperfect marriage is what makes it worthwhile). They would fight. Yes that’s true. Nevertheless they would mend each other, and continue to support each other at the end of the day. 

But today the line’s crossed. Too many pieces are shattering; too many words cannot be taken back; too many good things overshadowed by one misunderstanding. In silence, the only sound is that of clothes roughly thrown in the luggage and her racking sobs, piercing him like a thousand needles.

He sits on the bed and turns away. But the seat provides no comfort even as he tries to steady his breathing. Blank tiredness seep through his bones and he wonders if this heaviness is his soul that gave up the fight.

“I’m taking the children with me.” Her broken voice overpowers the sound of the zipper closing.

This time he stirs - a sharp gasp escaping his quivering lips. She takes no heed and doesn’t look back to see him cradle his head in his arms. Her footsteps thud on the wooden floor. One step… three steps… five steps… each sound growing fainter every second.

“I take thee at thy word.”

He clutches his head, too afraid to face the truth of their brokenness, but he continues to speak those lines of a tragedy that serve a whole new meaning between them: “Call me but love...and I’ll be new baptized.” He bites back a sob, barely finishing in a whisper, “Henceforth I never will be…Romeo.”

He carries on, despite the futility. “I remember Romeo and Juliet. It was Act 2, Scene 2…” he inhales sharply. “I remember Shakespeare. I remember you reciting a whole Act from memory because it was your favorite classic. I remember you quoting it verbatim just for the fun of it…”

And, as if a painful reminder, everything comes clear to him like a thousand mirrors flashing his life before his eyes:

“It was a tattered brown book you read in the library almost every day. And when you’re not in the library, I remember you loved to read under the tree at the far side of the courtyard…I remember hearing your calm and gentle voice during classes, at the same time I remember the contrast panic when I confessed. I remember your favorite tea – Earl Gray and you would always drink it with two spoonful of sugar and three stirs.”

Despite himself, he smiles, indulging himself in the memories that flow.

“I remember what you love, what you hate, what you looked like in our dance. During our first walk home that night, I remember why I fell, and while I may not have your brain, I remember everything when it comes to you…”

_Ah. _He rocks back and forth, a habit stemming from the insecurities biting back in full force. _Regret for the things we do can be tempered by time; it is regret for the things we did not do that is inconsolable._

“I’m no better than my estranged dad, I know. I’m worthless. I’m a fool. I’m selfish. But, I would rather be selfish if that’s what it will take for you to stay. Because it’s you…Please stay because I don’t want to remember a day when I lost you forever.”

The silence that follows finally breaks him and he lets loose emotions otherwise called a weakness to his kind. Selfish. Yes, he is selfish, but if being that will restore everything; he would rather be one than lose another piece of his heart. He weeps, every tear in his eyes a regret for all good things taken for granted; for the lessons learned, and for the damage now irreparable.

And suddenly, like a light at the end of a tunnel, she’s there.

She’s there, warm hands around him and buries her head on a trembling shoulder. He feels her tears stain his shirt, but he receives it like a child does his mother. The chasm between them is slowly mending – it heals along with each minute they were back in each other’s arms.

They share nothing but each other’s warmth: an apology, a memory of the reason why they are here. In the darkness of the unholy hour, born between two broken souls is a light: a myriad of second chances and new beginnings in the game they call ‘love’.

**\--- 14 ---**

“I have good news and bad news.”

He shifts from foot to foot, licking dry lips while waiting for her to wake. Three thoughts are already whirring inside his head: one concerns the sheer horror of letting her know, another the gravity of the situation he’s created, last but the greatest, how he botched up majorly it’s a miracle he hasn’t considered fleeing right then and there. Still, he holds his ground, ever the faithful husband, while watching with anxiety-riddled nerves how she pulls herself from lethargy.

When she’s upright, feet dangling at the edge of the bed, he reruns the statement and promptly plucks away the hardbound textbook on the table by her side of the bed.

Her sleep ridden countenance shifts, morphing from clouded then penetrative.

“What’s the good news?”

“Uhm…We’ll never do it again.”

As if speaking of the devil, laughter screeches from the kitchen; she’s gone in an instant, her thundering footsteps aiming for the sound. 

It wasn’t a bad idea, per se. Quite lovely in fact, if two rambunctious kids - aged five and three - kept the peace (or taken out of the picture entirely). But, an hour later, with the kitchen gleaming with white flour, the cupboards turned inside out, and the kids smothered with a paste made up of eggs, butter and some green slime the said gremlins refuse to name, the essence of the action went flying out of the window without reservation.

Rendered speechless from the harrowing scene, she looks at him over the shoulder. He, for the most part, has the backbone to hold the gaze with penitential intentions. 

“They’re definitely my sperm so this one’s on me.”

To add salt to the injury, the casserole coughs out black smoke. He doesn’t really remember anything afterwards, aside from the afterimages of frantic running, a towel, and the color white from the fire extinguisher.

(He swears he’s never heard a richer string of expletives from her which would put a pirate’s tongue to shame). 

In the thick of the smoky interior, the screeching of the gremlins and the ear-splitting pitch of the smoke alarm, the three perpetrators manage to envelope the petrified woman into a hug, and scream in unison:

“Happy Birthday Mommy!”

She can’t decide whether the tears are of joy or shock, or both, but she definitely savors her laughter from the bottom of her heart.

…

At the end of the day (after all traces of horror in the kitchen are obliterated and the kids are left smelling of honey and eucalyptus), they settle on a box of dainty cupcakes from the friendly baker down the street. All is forgiven; all is appreciated. And he ardently accepts her fond display of annoyance when they put the kids to bed.

Nonetheless, he agrees without question that he should be banned from the kitchen from that moment forward. 

**\--- 15 ---**

One afternoon, he finds her clutching the baby blankets, and likely sulking on the bed.

It’s been a few days since the youngest left for boarding school. It’s an inevitable, but necessary change, and both of them know it’s for the best. But despite not being the first time, seeing the youngsters spread their wings is still a bitter pill to swallow for doting parents. It’s quite unnerving he almost misses the morning chaos of the routine they call going-to-school.

_At least I won’t be dragging a kid by the backpack anymore. _

He swirls the bowl, and tosses the soup dregs out the window, replacing the tableware on the nightstand with a cup of tea. The packet of medicine beside it is half opened for easier consumption. It has been an uneventful day: her falling ill, and him taking a day’s off for her. Aside from a few snide comments about the burnt toast and the uneven cut on the soup’s vegetables, it’s all in a good day’s banter between the both of them.

“Penny for your thoughts?” he wiggles under the covers, finding time to support her backside as she downs the tea and the medicine.

“It’s too quiet.” She sniffs, wiping her nose with a paper towel. “Without all the screeching, my headache is dissolving in record time. It’s scary.” 

They laugh, despite the glassy look in her eyes. Fever and sentimentality never really make a good pair, but with her, they are a force to be reckoned with. He racks his brain for a possible solution to ease his wife’s discomfort, but before he can, she buries her small form facing him and lets out a sigh of contentment against his warmth.

“It’s all right”. She mumbles sleepily against his shoulder. “It’s not as if there’s no more kid that needs supervision.”

“I thought you said we were equals?” His tone of affront is drowned out by her shrill laugh as he gathers the blanket up on them. But he follows up with no more protest when she stills comfortably and soon falls into a pacified slumber.

They fall asleep in each other’s arms.

**\--- 16 ---**

“I’m getting old.”

He turns to find her fiddling with her aged hands – a nervous habit she never did overcome despite the years. The night is peaceful so much that it’s deafening despite the whisper she managed to choke out. “I’m not the same young woman you married long ago. My eyes are now dull - plainer than the plain brown they already are.” 

He never mentions the fact that sometimes, he sees her staring into the mirror, in deep contemplation when she thinks he’s asleep. At no time he calls her out, knowing there are things she would rather keep to herself. But in the stillness where the ghosts of self-doubts thrive screaming, it’s when the laughter of children and grandchildren filling the void is verily missed.

Without a word, he leaves the comfort of the bed and makes way to the old fashioned radio across the room. A few clicks and turns of the knob (with an occasional tap against the side), finally, he hears the telltale notes of a favorite ballad.

Instinctively, she knows and beams. Letting herself be guided up her feet, he warmly closes their hands together, his other hand at the small of her waist. Facing each other, the soft notes of the song lull their senses to calmness as they begin the very same dance that brought them together. They are rusty with age and their balance nowhere near perfect, but the moment is all that mattered.

“No. They’re auburn.” He whispers, addressing the elephant in the room. “Quite fitting the word at that one, for your eyes really burn – scorching every wall we’ve come across all these years.” He pulls her closer, chin on the crown of her head and continues, “Others may see brown, but I see the earth – the world. And that, you are and forever will be, to me – antiquity and all.”

He cherishes the embrace, admiring at how small she is against him. The feeling fills him with a sense of awe – how breathtaking must it be to be entrusted to protect someone whose heart is stronger than any he might have met in this lifetime. Though, there are moments that she forgets, it’s his role to bring light to the truth.

Her frame shudders with silent laughter, whatever previous uncertainties lurking her mind now dispersing with each sway to the music. “How come you did not pursue a Major in Literature like me?”

“Well possibly I have realized that one intellectual in the family is enough. The beast of burden will always be necessary.” The jest earned him a good mannered poke in the side.

It’s a good seven months away from their 50th wedding anniversary, but he is no less than a man of surprises than he was in their younger years. A spark of thought, then he begins “We’ve come so far. All these years, and look how we’ve grown. Suppose you are here with me tonight, and there are no books for you to hurl this time…”

He pulls back - the twinkle in his graying eyes ever present as he holds her gaze:

“Marry me. Again.” 

A beat of surprise, and this time she lets out a hearty laugh and the room seems to be a bit brighter than it was a couple of minutes ago. He joins in the shared joy, and feels the cold thrill trace his bones as if hearing her answer for the first time.

“I may not have the strength to pitch another textbook, but my answer would still be the same.”

**\--- 17 ---**

At seventy three years old, he finds himself in a hospital for the third time this year.

Their children stand vigil as she sleeps soundly, unconscious from the medications following her recent attack.

He could barely make out the voices of his children and the doctor inside because he resolves to passing time in the waiting lounge just outside the room. He cannot bring himself to join them because the sound of the heart monitors reminds him of the inevitable: despite the immediate treatment, she now nears her time.

Visitors come and go - He’s recognized a few academic colleagues along the way. Still, he refuses to enter the room, electing to wander around the hospital to avoid confrontation. The sky gets darker with each hour passing. By the time the last of the visitors leave, it was only then that his eldest child joins him in the hallway.

“Hi Dad.” She stirs, leaning a tired head on his shoulder. “How are you?”

She’s always been the sharper among the siblings, and he charges it to their mother’s wits. He loves her for it, but it’s during vulnerable moments like these that he somewhat dislikes the daughter’s gift (as much as a father could, of course).

Silver crowned hair unkempt; he merely releases a breath and toys with the wedding band on his wrinkled finger, trying to find a likeness of touch in the numbness. Are his hands that cold? Only then he notices that he is trembling; the silence in the hall reluctantly leaving him to hear the monitor beeping inside the room.

It’s a universal truth; still it’s only now that he realizes the implications to the full extent. It will come sooner or later but facing reality only makes it harder to accept. She will be moving on without him. He will come home to a silent house, with nothing but the traces of the memories of their time together: of books, of dances, of starry nights and wallflowers.

**\--- 18 ---**

_“Do you believe in magic?” _

He remembers the first question she asked that night.

…

…

_If I told you I didn’t, would you be there to assure me that someday, I would? _

**\--- 19 ---**

The last day of the interment, when asked by the minister for a eulogy, he stands proudly in front of everyone. In his hand is a worn out book – softbound, with some pages either browning, tattered or torn. He opens it on a page that is dog eared in more ways than one and smiles when the familiar handwriting greets him.

He utters but four lines – her favorite and now, his last words for her: 

_“My bounty is as boundless as the sea,_

_My love as deep. The more I give to thee,_

_Good night, good night! Parting is such sweet sorrow, _

_That I shall say good night till it be morrow.” _

**\--- 20 ---**

A year later, he peacefully follows.

**\--- 01 ---**

Once upon a time, in the place where the lights dance merry and music fill the air, they meet again for the last time.

…

…

Their eternal story starts here.

**Author's Note:**

> Life's hard, but it's also beautiful. That's a truth I've been struggling to ingrain these past years. But hey, all is well. :D 
> 
> Thanks for your time. Let me know what you think! <3


End file.
